I could walk it blindfolded, the route to downtown Wayne from my childhood home on Woodland Avenue. When I biked, I knew the cracks in the sidewalk—the ones to avoid and the ones to fly over. As a kid, I’d go to John’s Village Market for Spree candy or a Tastycake apple pie; I hit the hoagie-stride in high school, and even now as an ISO-low-carbs 50-year-old, I’ll treat myself to a turkey-on-a-kaiser (lettuce-tomato-sweet-peppers-no-mayo): feeding both stomach and soul.
I’d go to Harrisons for Levi’s, to Kaleidoscope for stationery, the Paisley Shop for post-earrings and those little stuffed mice. My mom and I would search for books like treasure at the Readers’ Forum.
My husband’s memory map: after caddying at St. Davids, he’d ride his Raleigh Rampar 10-speed to O’Brien’s newsstand for Bubble Yum, then on to Pie in the Sky for a slice and a quick game of Defender. We all have our stories, and so many of us can trace our steps back to Wayne Sporting Goods. WSG opened the door to new sports for me and my children: the first lacrosse stick and the fresh can of tennis balls. WSG has provided holiday gifts, the emergency mouthguard replacement, the team jerseys, that maroon-and-aqua striped Speedo my best friend and I each bought independent of each other in ‘79. While I’m happy that their business will live on through BSN Sports, I’m sad the storefront door is closing.
This is just to say, we will miss you, Wayne Sporting Goods, and to encourage all of us to continue to walk, bike, and ride to our beloved Wayne and to all the other towns up and down the Main Line.
Crack reporter that I am, I had my husband call the Tiger Shop (since there’s no website) to confirm that David Abraham is still the owner: he is—has been since 1970—and fifteen-minutes later, my husband was still on the phone with David Abraham, who even remembered when my father used to come into the store: “short Irish guy, right?” The answer is, of course, yes, and that’s the beauty of shopping small business. I’ve certainly sat at this very desk, in flannels and fuzzy socks, adding to my Amazon Cart, but poor Jeff Bezos . . . he never got to meet my dad.
Cheers to you, Mom and Pop,